


Warm feelings

by WombatLadyBuset



Category: Deltarune (Video Game)
Genre: Amputation, Dehumanization, Gross, Humiliation, M/M, Mindfuck, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychosis, Public Humiliation, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sadporn, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Watersports
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2019-10-29 15:31:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17810651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WombatLadyBuset/pseuds/WombatLadyBuset
Summary: He had never expected his king to be a dogperson.





	1. Dinnertime

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there sport, make sure to not read this unless you are looking for the spiritual death of Rouxls Kaard.  
> This honestly isn't for most people, but people who like to indulge in sad and horrifying things. If that sounds like you, enjoy this piece and future chapters.  
> \---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He heard a clink, and the pull-lid on some type of can was opened. Rouxls waited patiently. He looked forward to every meal, as it at least reminded him of something familiar. And he adored those rare times that meant getting permission to sit and eat at the table. that was the best, almost like old times. Even though he today, as opposed to those past golden days, ate with just his face instead of using utensils; If he didnt recieve help from either the king himself or a rudinn servant. 

Slow as ever, the reddish brown chunks of blended mealworms, gelatine and cheap starch dropped off into his bowl, each piece making a rather unappetizing sound as it slopped down onto the surface. But rouxls didn’t care. He liked worms. They were delicious. He didnt care what form they came in anymore. He used to be bothered by it, but now… he was used to this bland, sodium-laden gloop. It was enjoyable in a way. He could appreciate the … savory depth of it’s flavour, the earthy, iron-like sweetness and… interesting, crunchy texture. Ocassionally he’d find a whole worm in there that had yet to be blended. It was strangely nostalgic, even if all of them had yet to twitch or wriggle. The worms had since long been boiled for safety. Then they were steeped in gelatine, that had been contrived from hooves and bonemarrow and all kinds of things that Rouxls would never have eaten otherwise. Lastly, the glop had been canned; and stored in a chilled warehouse to be shipped off to every convenience store for miles. 

He’d never thought in his life that he would think of, nevertheless appreciate, something like that about mere gruel. This wasnt even very good quality gruel. You wouldnt feed it to your dog, even they wouldnt touch it. Pigs would get sick from it. But not Rouxls. He’ll eat anything. It was lucky that he already enjoyed worms. With an annoyed huff, the king set the alluminum dish down for him, waited, keeping eyecontact with Rouxls, and then gave him the nod that Rouxls had come to understand, meant that he had permission to eat. 

Rouxls sticky little face was burrowed in that bowl in an instant, and the king seemed more than pleased. 

With those cheeks stuffed full, Rouxls repeated garbled nonsensical utterings of praise and confessions of gratitude, scarfing down every last bit of his lunch. Some of that thin sauce was left running down his chin, he’d been so hungry he’d completely forgotten his table manner. 

King didn’t seem to notice, as he stood above him; his impressive size so that the little amputee only reached to just his knee level. 

”’Papa doesn’t have any gravy for your lunch today” King said, cupping himself through his finely tailored suit pants ”Papa’s all out”. 

Damn it.

”I paid a little brunch-visit to that… what’s it’s name… Temmie, Tammy, Timmy?” he groaned, leaning back with an obscenely large cigar ”That cute little number really knows how to suck” he lit the cigar and took two shallow puffs, before falling into a worrying fit of coughing. 

”you could take a few lessons from her” 

Rouxls hadn’t stopped eating. But yes, he did register that all too familiar twinge of nerves inside of him. Push it down. Push it. King got down as close as he could comfortably do to Rouxls eye level, and reached out to give him a couple of strangely affectionate pats on his head. ”I’ll be watching some of that Mettaton now, you’ve been such a good boy, you are allowed to join me if you’d like”. 

King had almost said that tenderly.  
It had never occured to Rouxls that the king would enjoy caring for a pet of any kind. He didn’t seem like the type. And a clumsy, needy little lapdog, certainly didnt seem like his type. He certainly wouldn’t have allowed young Lancer to have a pet. 

Lancer

That sweet pudgy little boy, how long ago wast it mine lordeth senteth him awaye to that school? Rouxls hadnt been allowed to see him since then. He remembered that he used to scold lancer about his etiquette, wipe his face, wash his fur, brush it until it was soft and clean and oh so fluffy…  
He used to tell Lancer to use a knife and fork instead of his fists, when that little boy would scarf down his worms. Isn’t that funny how things turn out. Even more foreign, was the memory he had of teaching Lancer to stand up for himself. It was as if it’d faded away with time. He no longer remembered the context. Was it in relation to Lancer’s father, the king? Had Rouxls unknowingly taught Lancer a cautionary tale about Rouxls own life; his subconscious fears of that time? 

The white noise of their tv’s omnious humming brought Rouxls back to reality, and he realised that he would get to listen in on Mettaton’s midday programming. He licked his bowl clean and then stumbled towards their tv-room. The screen was almost blinding, agressively florescent as it was.  
His king had sprawled out across their leather sofa in a way that looked extremely comfortable.  
King had taken off his shirt, cape, armor and shoes. Now, King looked like nothing else but a warm decieving softness ready to snap shut. He looked so peacefully invested in this millionaire’ show that Rouxls was not sure if he even wanted to disturb him. Normally he’d plop down on the floor at a good distance from the tv, or by his lordes feet, but now he was unsure weither or not he should intrude at all. Despite being given exclusive permission, instruction, to do so. 

”It’s alright, you may sit on the furniture this once” His king winked, raising a finger that was meant to warn Rouxls that it would indeed only be this time. Rouxls was sceptical. Should he? This wasn’t a trick, was it? One look into his King’s eyes told him that this was also not only permission but instruction, it was an order. Realising that he was taking time, being annoying, angering the king, by not acting on the order given to him; he did his best to crawl toward the King’s feet. Large paws grabbed around his middle and lifted him off the ground, and onto the sofa. 

Before everything, Rouxls would have scoffed at this colorful, cheerful, sexy and above all chaotic spectacle. He had a faint memory of himself saying that this brainless, exploitative programm was as much entertainment as Lancer’s splat noises had been music. It was poision to the mind. 

Rouxls hadn’t been as much of an intellectual as he wanted people to believe. But he was snob, and a big fan of finer culture.Even though he had dismissed the programm as being lowbrow trash, he found that he had a hard time following it. The guests speaking slurred together with Mettaton who asked them all kinds of questions, making it seem like he was either not listening, or Rouxls brain w a s j u s t L A G G I N G a n d h e w a s b e g i n n i ng too…..  
Sl O O W W  
D o wn  
a n d s o o n he e e 

m a d e h imself c… o… m fortable…. comfortable… warm… comfortable 

Scooting from the armrest of the intimidating Leather Sofa, he leaned into what he presumed was the King’s warm soft belly, and was allowed to do so. A warm, strong paw massaged his scalp, and he let himself float off, distracted by their television. 

warm…


	2. The party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rouxls is the guest of honor at Spade's party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyy I’m sorry this is so late <3 I was kept busy with my birthday, my girlfriend going to college, and work.  
> All previous warnings apply. This chapter is extremely gross, I don't half-ass, I full-ass! Hope you sickos enjoy.

 

“Well, well well, aren’t you affectionate today, Rouxls?”

 

Rouxls smiled as he was petted, and nuzzled closer into his kings aboundant pudge, It was so warm, and nice, and soft…  very luxorious. Like a soft plush pillow. A soft soft soft warm plush pillow. All fat and fur. 

 

“Or perhaps you are hungry, hm? Don’t worry, Daddy’s got a treat for you”

 

_Open up, buttercup_

 

And buttercup did open up, he obediently swallowed whatever was given to him, as always. This time it was a cracker of some kind, liver flavoured. Naturally and artificially. _Crunchy._ He found that he enjoyed it quite a bit, as he mindlessly scarfed it down. It had texture! Food Food Food! 

 

Affectionately and like a responsible pet-owner would, Spade wiped rouxls’ chin and lips with a suspiciously moist handkerchief,  that had been in his pocket for far too long.  “I am having a little get together, later tonight. I thought i’d take you for a walk,  and let you get rid of some of that excess energy, doesn’t that sound nice, Rouxls?” 

Rouxls stared at him with glazed, confused eyes. He blinked slowly, and his mouth fell open slightly in his now all the more usual confusion. 

A walk sounded… nice. He hoped the ground wasn’t too wet from the rain. It made his stumps cold, and achey. Even if they did put on protective silicone pads, to make sure he didn’t cut himself on any glass or razors or anything else that sadists might hide in the dog-park. He’d gotten a shard of green bottle glass stuck in one of his stumps before, when they weren’t wise enough to use the pads. It had been pure agony to pull it out. His master’s paws were large, and he didn’t quite grip the shard properly. He had always been rather cross with litterers, and had punished them severely back when he was still king; but now, he didn’t have the power anymore to skin litterers alive, since the dark world was, unfortunately, a democracy now. Thanks to those meddling children. If Spade couldn’t rule a kingdom, you bet your little ass he’d rule over Rouxls. He’ll control every waking moment of Rouxls life, when he sleeps, when he cums, when he eats, when he shits… he’ll hold power over rouxls by his emotions. That’s how the real sadists do it, they eat away at what should stay safe and hidden. They tear into where they were never welcome. And Rouxls keens, mewls and shakes as spade hurts him one way after another. It’s a hard life. Being kept on a leash, punished when he’s bad, rewarded when good, and ignored whenever Spade grows tired of him. Rouxls had always been a challenge to spend prolonged lengths of time with, and he continued to be a source of annoyance even after he’d had his limbs, independence and will removed. Maybe that could be a reason as to why he’d always had a hard time making close friends. There’s just something fundamentally pathetic about him that can’t be quelled, no matter how much you beat him. Spade likes it that way. He wants to keep a small part of Rouxls alive. A small part of him that is yet to be chipped away but unprotected, vulnerable and easily exposed. 

 

Spade patted his head affectionately “I knew you’d like that” he purred, and stroked Rouxls mane of white, silky hair. Rouxls made a gargling noise back in his throat, somewhere between a groan and a whimper. It meant yes, either way. Exercise would do him good. 

 

They took the beloved vintage car to the park. Rouxls in his dog-cage, safely held by his majesty, who sat in the front seat. Their newly appointed Chauffeur drove them. Rouxls felt a pang of jealousy as he made eye contact with him, and thus repeatedly had to remind himself to avert his gaze. That used to be one of Rouxls responsibilities, driving. He faintly remembered driving Lancer around wherever he wanted, wether it had been to the park or the museum of trinkets, that had closed down long ago. He wondered if the Chauffeur would take his place as pet one day, when he got too old. _Best not to think about that_. There are enough things to worry about. For example, Rouxls has started worrying that he’ll be “put to sleep”. One of many examples of better things that he has to worry about. Yet, despite his better knowing he couldn't help but stare at him, trying to sneak discreet glances. He wore an expensive looking watch, and had lovely, flowing black hair. He couldn’t stop the rage that surged through him, building up slowly but surely. Oh how he despised this man. How dare he steal Rouxls job. Never mind that he was recently hired, and Rouxls had lived like this for years; he had stolen Rouxls job. Why wouldest he be needed nowe that younge Lancer were nought aroundeth? Whye shall he drive his majesty around? His majesty was more than capable to do that himself. As Rouxls leaned closer to the cage’s grid of steel wire, getting a better look at this horrendous man, he felt himself drawn more and more to the idea of peeing in his lap. Even if he was rather attractive, with his sharp chin, finely shaped lips and attractive fangs. His name-tag said “Fleur”. _Fleur._ Fleur was an attractive young man. Dressed in the exact same uniform that Rouxls used to love wearing, with the matching cap and handsome white gloves. His pretty, black hair in a high ponytail. He wondered if Fleur knew who he’d been, because he barely looked at him. And when Fleur did, he didn’t look at him like he would a person; quick, amused glances. Fleur didn’t seem shocked, or disturbed. People rarely were. 

 

It felt so good to move. And fresh air, oh, he loved it! Even if he was a bit too slow for his master’s liking, he still did his best to hobble along at a good enough pace. 

 

It was a beautiful park. Lots of leafy vegetation. 

 

Rouxls squatted down in the grass, and felt the straws of dried grass tickle the inside of his remaining thighs, as he steadily lowered himself onto the soft plane. He was propped up on his front stumps, and leaned onto them as if his life depended on it. His stumps shook with his pushing, and grunting. Finally, it slid out of him, and by god, he did his absolute best not to fall back in it. It really stunk. A couple of years ago, if Rouxls had been confronted with the mere possibility that he, Rouxls Kaard, pooped, he would have been appalled and denied it; no matter how ridiculous he’d look. Always the prude. 

 

“There we go” 

 

With a sigh that is much like that of an exhausted parent potty-training their toddler, and finally seeing some progress, Spade picked up the poop, protecting himself and his immaculate paw, with a dainty little plastic baggie. It wasn’t pink, but it might as well have been. The way it looked clutched between his large fingers made for a funny little detail for bypassers. If the strange, naked dog wasn’t quaint enough. “Don’t forget to pee, Rouxls” he said, condescendingly affectionate while he waited, tapping his massive foot. “I’m not making a second trip. You know Daddy’s a busy man”

 

Rouxls tried to relax, but it was frustrating. 

 

“you remember what happened last time, don’t you?”

 

Rouxls did remember. He’d pissed all over the carpet, earlier that year, and received one of the worst beatings of his life.

 

—————

> _ “Look what you did you stupid, mangy mutt!” _
> 
>  
> 
> _ At first, the punishment didn’t start out any differently than it usually did. A rolled up newspaper is enough to teach even the dumbest of animals a much needed lesson. As per protocol he hit him with the newspaper, hard, across his sore little rump. And then he just kept hitting him, spanking him with the newspaper, over and over, while Rouxls helplessly rolled around at his feet like a dark blue, squealing sausage. Rouxls is housetrained, but he isn’t allowed to use the toilet, as it is far too big for him. And Spade doesn’t like to admit when he’s forgotten to take Rouxls out for walks. Naturally the blame falls on his dog. This wouldn’t have been as dangerous, if it hadn't been for the fact that Spade's sheer size alone makes him a considerable threat to Rouxls.  _
> 
>  
> 
> _ This instance must have been especially annoying to him, because Spade usually holds his temper enough not to cause any serious, physical damage. Not this time though. It’s as if he has snapped. It might be the stress, Rouxls thinks briefly, before the real blows are landing on him like a flurry of large hairy fists. He is hit across his eyes, his mouth, the back of his head, making him dizzy, as he convulses. His muscles twitch helplessly, tongue falling to the side as drool runs down his bruised cheek. He is kicked left and right, rolling over like a good dog, whimpering apologies that fall on deaf ears. It is clear to anyone but Rouxls that he won’t stop no matter how much Rouxls yips, begs and sobs. He’s not beating Rouxls anymore. He’s beating nosy Lightener brats. He is smashing them into bloody pulps. Crushing their little fingers, gnawing their little button noses off and tearing their openings with his massive body. Every cry he draws from the quivering little body below him is a challenge to hit harder, deeper and better. He’s not too old to fight. How dare those snotnosed little shits call him obsolete. How dare they steal his kingdom. He is a man neutered. Neutered. He’ll show them who is really castrated.  _
> 
>  
> 
> _ Spade holds Rouxls up by his hair, wringing his hands around his weak neck, successfully cutting off his air supply. Rouxls large, sad eyes stare at him, apologising wordlessly in garbled sobs. Fat tears and slime is dribbling down his face, spluttering from his mouth while he coughs and wheezes. He’s just a dog, he tries to say. He didn’t know. I entreat thou to haf mercy on me, please sire, I begge of thou. It takes a while for Spade to come to his senses again. Maybe it was the way Rouxls stumps wiggled as he struggled for air, or maybe he’s telepathic, but something changes in his face. He relaxes just a bit, his cold, calculating eyes turning round and confused. His noble, aged face slowly filling with the realisation of what he’s done. A twitch of his portly jowls that Rouxls has learned to associate with regret, and guilt. He takes a wavering breath, his paws shake. Beads of sweat roll down his temple, down his neck. Like it did in the war. This is just like the war.  _
> 
>  
> 
> _ He flings Rouxls against the wall with a loud smack.  _
> 
>  
> 
> _ “This was a venetian throwrug” he grumbled in aggravated afterthought, and left Rouxls to lick his wounds, while he phoned the dry-cleaner. Dogs are more trouble than they’re worth sometimes.  _

 

—————————————

 

Rouxls sat down asbest he could propped up on his stumps, and urinated. His shame is always present. It took a minute until the piss started flowing out of him in a steady, yellow stream.It was a little hard to relax with the people watching him. He was a little pee-shy, had always been. Even if he closed his eyes, wether they be closed in contentment or tightly shut in an attempt to preserve his dignity, he couldn’t forget the strangers. He heard them whispering and could only think about what they must be saying to each other, if they even reflected over him. Were they laughing at him? Were they watching him the way they would a weird dog? An exotic breed of dog with fur on his head, and nowhere else? He couldn’t tell. Rouxls had always been pretty bad at reading social cues, but he’d been getting more and more soft in the head lately. He’d been forgetting what a lot of words meant. When the pee went from a jet, into a small drip, a large and calloused paw caressed his confused head. _Good boy._ No accidents. No broken ribs or torn sphincters. And best of all, a warm place to sleep. He’d do anything for a warm bed. He always had. 

 

———————————————-

 

The party was happening later that evening, and preparations were taking place. Caterers were preparing the massive spread. They were joyfully roasting a large pig, coating it in honey, vinegar, mustard and thyme. They were whipping up a delicious chocolate pudding, liberal with the heavy cream and using only the finest cocoa. They were making little croquettes out of pressed parsnips, potatoes, parsley and quail eggs. It was a truly remarkable amount of food, even for the often hungry king, who was known to enjoy gorging himself on fine dishes. 

 

Rouxls spent the time suckling Spade’s cock while he relaxed on the couch. He took it deep, He’d always been good at taking it deep. Even back when they were normal lovers. _He always took it deep._ Even when it hurt, he took it deep. He tried so hard. Could he please him? Spit dribbled down his chin, and the mercilessly vibrating toy inside of him was moving rhythmically in time with his obedient suckling; his licking, his lazily slopping tongue that lapped at large, unwashed balls and drifted from perineum to cockhead, again and again. Rouxls must have looked like such a mess. His eyes were watery and unfocused, he had cum drying on his belly, and his stumps shook. It wasn’t for nothing. His master seemed ecstatic. He was too far gone to do anything but growl and enjoy getting his large cock worshipped. Rouxls in turn was enjoying the mash-down his insides were given. The way that all of his pleasurable little spots were touched and stroked right down into their very core. He made the most obscene noises around the cock in his throat, half of the time the sinful noises didn’t come across as human. They were unidentifiable wails and sobs, muffled shrieks of ecstasy and small yelps as the toy graced over his prostate. Finally he was rewarded with a warm mouthful of cum. His job was done. 

 

Rouxls slept on the sofa, while the caterers prepared, and his master was making himself look good. To anyone watching, it would have been hard to not burst out laughing. Seeing as a large animal like Spade was trimming his silky white fur with a dainty little pair of scissors. First behind his ears, then over the top of his head. He had to look immaculate. Had to prove that he still held the same power.

 

Guests started arriving. Rouxls awoke to the sound of them welling through the doors like ants, making strange cackling noises, and greeting his king with loud, terrifying yells of devotion. Their mouths black holes. Blaring music. Fast, unexpected movements that felt surreal. 

 

They all wore costumes of some sort. 

 

Rouxls got a little scared.

 

Some seemed antique, like the intricate Wolf’s mask that the elderly gentleman to Rouxls left wore, and others looked cheap, like the distastefully childish pigtails, ruby shoes and frilly dress worn by the skeleton; who was relaxing on the loveseat in the corner, beside a short skeleton in a straw hat, and ratty old clothes. At first Rouxls thought that he looked like the younger one of the two, but his voice was deep, and raspy. Like a smoker, with a heavy Bostonian accent. 

 

A tall, thin man wearing a … was it a “Mickey Mouse” mask? Lancer had a soft, babyblue nightgown with that exact face when he was just a pup. How terrifying. Rouxls curled in on himself, under the table. What a perversion of a fond memory. It was enough to make him sick. As if the windings hadn’t been sickening enough. He remembered speaking it, and understanding it. But nowadays… he’d lost all basic knowledge of the language. He really was getting soft in the head. Just like and old dog, mind slowly slipping, growing foggy.

It was just like Spade said. 

 

One particularly strange guest was seated beside the Wolf-man, he was portly and at least four heads shorter than said wolf. He wore a black rubbersuit, like the kind used for diving; paired with a positively terrifying joker’s mask. It was gaudy, garish, grizzly; with a huge crimson nose in the centerIts, and large, bloodshot eyes that stared off into an odd direction. Its smile was broad and menacing, a rubber tongue poking out between its perverse lips. What reallly caught Rouxls attention, however, was that the mask had seemingly just been snatched directly from the store. Or from any large halloween franchise of your choice, really. The pricetag was still attached to it. As was the safety tag. It dangled from the mask’s bottom left corner like an ugly piece of jewellery. 

 

“HEEHEEEE I WANT TO PET YOUR DOG” The clown screeched, reaching for Rouxls with his grabby, sticky clown-hands. They had that “toddler-smell”. Fingerpaint, feces and candy. His breath smelled like pennies. New coins. It made Rouxls dizzy, as he threaded those sticky fingers through Rouxls’s freshly washed hair. 

 

“mmhmhn yes he is rather cute, what’s his name, darling?” Said the robot in the Marilyn Monroe costume. 

 

They were sitting on a satin couch in the designated party-room, which was only to be used for special occasions, such as funeral-coffee or regal teaparties. Despite losing his power, his king had not lost his social status. He still preferred to surround himself with courts people, who respected him greatly, and Lightener celebutants, from the surface. The party-room was undoubtedly the nicest place in their house. The least nice place was Rouxls “bad dog room”. It was a dingy little crawlspace beneath the stairs, equipped with only a small, diagonal wooden cross. No lights whatsoever. And a strange smell. Old houses tend to hold a certain scent, somewhere along the lines of mildue and wet hair, but the stench inside of the crawlspace was much less pleasant than even that. Rouxls hated spending his nights there. It made him long to sleep by his Majesties feet. His Majesty, dressed as satan himself, all in red spandex, complete with faux tail and a menacing, spiked spear, laughed warmly. It was a bellylaugh, from all the way down inside of him. Rouxls whined. “His name is Rouxls, Mettaton.” Spade said, as he stroked along Rouxls soft belly, down toward his less than average cock, which was hard as rock, and had been so all evening. It felt disgustingly inviting to rouxls, with that brutal, uncompromising finger tango-ing with his unimpressive little clitty. All hard and sensitive, a tiny little in his sinful body. He couldn’t help but grind against Spade’s pattern of movement, aiming to gain some form of release.

 

He didn’t know what was happening, but someone other than Spade lifted him onto their own lap instead, and started kissing him. Such an abrupt change of pace. Just small pecks, all over the top of his head, down to his cheek, further along his neck, before stopping right at his collarbone. “Such a sweet pup you are, darling” he whispered “I simply adore lapdogs”. Rouxls was enjoying the attention, and whined in response. The robot Marilyn, whom Rouxls was slowly beginning to recognise as Mettaton, turned to Spade, batted his long fake eyelashes and begged in the sweetest, sultriest voice that Rouxls had ever heard; to take Spade’s adorable little pup for walks. 

 

“He makes for a lovely accessory” Mettaton explained, tickling along Rouxls hard little cock with skilled and experienced fingers. “What could the little sweethearts name be?” He placed Rouxls back on Spade’s lap. “His name is Rouxls, Mettaton” Spade said calmly. Gazing upon his pet with fond eyes “All of you may pet him however you like, he loves the attention”

 

The clown immediately started pawing at rouxls ass. He was so vigorous, It was like he’d waited years for this opportunity. He smacked and prodded the modestly bony asscheeks.’Traced his chubby fingers along the outer rim of Rouxls stretched out little hole; playing with it for a long time, whilst he giggled to himself, in the way reserved for children and people who want to fuck them. 

“Oh that is good. He’d get a lot of that, the press would love him.” Mettaton paused, before thoughtfully resuming his tender petting. 

 

“I have seen it, you know; all celebrities on the surface have little dogs in their handbags.” Mettaton trailed off, playing a bit with one of Rouxls nipples, affectionately kissing his cheek “And I just so happen to have a spring collection of purses that I’m modelling; OH Rouxls would be perfect for that” he blabbed. 

 

“hmmm” Spade swirled his wineglass thoughtfully “He’s never been a big fan of your show, though. Can you imagine? He used to call it mindnumbing” he smiled.

 

How ironic. 

 

An unpleasant silence followed. Mettaton’s expression changed, his seductive, charismatic gaze hardened like murky water freezing over, turning his face into an unreadable mask. He took a shallow breath, and through gritted teeth he managed to hiss “Did he, now?” without losing his smile. He peered down with malice in his beautiful optics, at the covering Rouxls, through his thick, artificial eyelashes.  


Spade swirled his wine, smirking down at rouxls, and then at the offended robot superstar “mhm yes he actually used the word mindnumbing” waving his hand dismissively “and… garish, trash, exploitative, distasteful… amongst other things”. Mettaton turned silent, silken-like aluminium lips twisted into an odd expression, not quite resembling a smile anymore. Rouxls made himself as tiny as possible, fearful, with good reason to be. _Oh whye didst mine kinge haf to telleth him!_ He knew he ought not to think this way of his master, he depends on him, after all. It took a long time to accept his new life, and he’s not about to ruin it, asking questions, looking for answers that will do nothing but devastate him. Yet, old thoughts begin to make themselves known. Perhaps it is his old self making an unwelcome return, but sometimes… sometimes Rouxls gets paranoid. He begins to get the strange feeling that he is not in good hands.He gets the feeling that Mettaton’s visit was merely a ploy to humiliate him, tear him to shreds, degrade him. Simply one of many plans to put him on the spot when he is unable to defend himself. Now, _now… Rouxls knows that this is crazy._ But somewhere, in an unviolated inch of his feeble mind, he couldn’t quite shake the creeping possibility that this had been the whole point of inviting the star, mayhaps the entire reason Spade was having a party at all. He’d never been one for spontaneous gatherings in and of himself. Mettaton and the others were still conversing, agitated and restless, spewing hushed curses and muttering about hypocrisy. 

 

“Well well well what a coincidence. I’ve always _despised_ Rouxls myself”. 

 

He put his wineglass down, and leaning in close to Rouxls, who was sandwiched between Spade and himself, spoke calmly and elegantly, in the way an evil stepmother would explain why she preferred her own children over Cinderella. “I’ve always hated your stupid, snooty face and those empty eyes. And don’t even get me started on your infantile puzzles, your… your.. disgusting _complexion_! You sluggish creature, You dare insult an _artist, an entertainer, a modern geisha…” He dug his clawlike nails into rouxls soft, yielding flesh, posing theatrically , earning a squeal, that only seemed to spurr him on even more “_ When you’re not even fit to be a limbless _whore_ yourself!”. 

 

As if realising what he was doing, Mettaton collected himself, and his harsh pinches, with unsteady and wavering motoric control, turned into devoted stroking and loving caresses. 

 

“which is why I’m so… thrilled, darling, that he’s changed for the better. I like this version of him a lot more.”  


“Me too!” Jevil stopped playing with Rouxls butthole and looked up “The little bitch never used to let me play with his pooper before” 

 

The part of Rouxls that still had a sense of dignity, despite how beaten down his self image had gotten, cringed inwardly at the crude expression. _Pooper._ Disgusting, childish imp. Being called a bitch didn’t bother him half as much as having his rear end referred to as a _pooper._ In fact, he used to be aroused by a bit of playful name calling. He’d allowed it before everything changed, revelled in it; enjoyed the erotic sense of shame and danger, debasement, that came when he flirted with strange men. Just a bit of teasing, maybe showing a demure sliver of slimy blue skin. The problem was that it was Jevil who said it. As if he would ever have slept with such a revolting, not to mention short, man. Rouxls liked his men bigger (in all senses of the word), taller and stronger than himself. He liked them to be mature, cultured; sensual. To think that jevil even brought it up as a possibility that he would consider sleeping with him was absurd. Insulting, even. 

 

“In a way, I think this is what you were always meant to be, Rouxls”

 

Who _said_ that? 

Rouxls couldn’t tell. 

 

Had he thought it? 

 

Just a pathetic little bitch in heat, begging, moaning, accepting whatever is done to him so obediently; mewling at every touch, every caress. Be it a slap, a kiss, or a nice fat cock up his loose ass. Can’t tell pain from pleasure, love from hatred, compliments from sarcasm; or even cheap dogfood from wagyu beef. He can’t tell if the person stroking his weeping cock and pulling on his pathetic little titties is his master, George Clooney or a sadistic clown that has grown tired of children, and moved onto animals. Pulling legs off of flies, drawing it out with a kind of perverted glee. Torturing a dog who’s lost his mind. Rouxls body doesn’t care. It wants what it wants and as if that wasn’t enough, It hardly belongs to him anymore. His mind is following shortly after. Coming, coming, com-bining, combining him with Spade’s ideal, what he was always meant to be. Becoming part of Spade, existing for him, rarely, barely there anymore. Serving him in the way only a dangerously loyal pup can do. Lapping at whatever is put in front of him. Twitching like a snail dipped in salt. 

 

“Hmm look at this” His majesty hummed, dragging a slick, slimy finger from Rouxls excited hole, to his lapping tounge, and he accepted it greedily “You’re already wet, aren’t you, pooch?”.

 

Rouxls could do nothing but give a weak nod, suckling his fingers lovingly. Repeating things he used to say before all of this, when they made love. _Yesse master. I art so wette, I yearneth for thoust cocke in me mine liege. Please fucke thine loyal duke, fucke him likest a wee wench._ When he could safely degrade himself to his hearts content, without the fear of it being true. Reality mimics fiction, or so they say.

 

Frantically glancing around the room at the strange guests, Rouxls noticed that they were coming closer. Mushing together until they resembled a wall of broad, menacing smiles. Bulging eyes. Sharp teeth and claws. Those bulging eyes, like perverted, wicked toads. Wide, ugly faces with disturbing leers. 

 

_WhATw_

_As H a P peN_

_In g?_

 

_W-hy we-re the-y s-o cl-os-e?_

 

_WHy were they_

_so many?_

_? And THEY Got cLOser._

 

His dizzy head is grabbed, his mouth is opened by steel fingers, and his tounge is mashed down by a hard, unforgiving, mechanical cock. Pistoning in and out of him like it’s mashing fruit into pulp, pulling saliva and bile, coaxing him to swallow it all, saliva, semen, secretions, slick down his cumdrain. It hurt so bad. Why. Why were theyy…. why

 

Rouxls was gagging, his mind blank, like a canvas, a dead landscape. 

 

He’ll believe what they want him to believe. 

 

The cock had ridges, silicone ridges that irritated his throat. 

He felt the clown prod at his asshole again, and skeletal fingers grabbing at his cock, dipping sharp edges into his urethra, that small, tender slit. They are madmen. 

 

He hoped he could accommodate them. 

 

Jevil’s penis wasn’t long, but it was thick, tho nowhere as thick as Spade’s. With a large bulbous head, purple and weeping, sickly grey in places, covered in veins and heavy with the stench of stale urine, lingering in his sparse, coarse pubic-hair. He could feel it scrape against his hips in tune with Jevil’s insistent rutting. Disgusting. Disgraceful… He could hardly believe that he’d been invited at all. He assumed master would, in the very least, have the decency to only invite people that he’d seen fit to rape and ravage his pet. That is the word for it, isn’t it? A scandalous,court jester didn’t seem like the type. “OH heeheheee it slips right in” Jevil, the ugly imp, giggled, and slapped Rouxls yielding buttcheeks like he was a mule in heat. How disgusting.

 

The speed and depth was ever changing. He never quite got used to it, and it always caught him off guard. Just pounding, pounding, pounding into him. For being revolting as he was, Jevil made for a competent lover. It was beginning to feel good, degrading as it was. 

 

Rouxls came, and spurted ropes of cum all over himself. Waves upon waves of ecstasy ripped through his shaking little torso, making his stumps tremble. He felt himself clamp and tighten around Jevil’s beer-can of a cock, ripples of his orgasm making him slack with apathy. You see, a small amount of semen had splattered onto the couch. He received a harsh slap across his cheek for that. Bad dog. _Lick it up. And if he leaves as much as a single drop of his filthy cum, he’ll find that his small, small world turns infinitely more vicious over night._

 

 

———-

 

While he is preoccupied cleaning his mess off of the furniture, they, whoever the skeletons were,brought out a large aluminium bowl from the bathroom. It must have been sitting there all evening. The stench was horrendous. Rouxls, always having had a flair for the pretentious thought that It was as if pandoras box had spilled into a crater. A crater of metal, heavy with disgusting warm fumes, emitting from it like decorative smoke at a concert. There were a couple of flies buzzing around the rim, settling into the foul liquid for no more than seconds, going on their way when the stench got too much for even them. 

 

The thin, tall man wearing the Mickey Mouse mask said something that was beginning to sound like “The dog has to go in it too”, making a crude gesture with his hands, as he went on stroking himself. 

 

Excited to watch Rouxls do in the bowl what they’ve all done earlier today, they hold him above it by his stumps, like he’s a babydoll, nailed onto a cross. They are smiling softly, coaxing him to let go and “squirt it out”. Rouxls is too aware of himself, he’s always been a bit pee-shy, we’ve gone over that, haven’t we? It is as if his body locks up, tightening. The wolfman is massaging his stomach, slowly, tenderly urging him to be a good dog and do what they say. His masters. Do what they tell him to. He’ll get a treat if he does. A nice crunchy piece of dried worms, pressed into shape, it’s going to feel so good inside his tummy. Feeding time. It tastes good. Good enough that he lets go of himself, and promptly, with the tiniest twinge of shame, urinates. It shoots out of him like a golden, coppery beam of pungent water. It isn’t until he’s finished relieving himself, and the laughter has died down, that he gets a good look at the bowl. His frail brittle heart jumped in his even more brittle ribcage, upon seeing the mess that this party had accumulated in. The piss in this godforsaken aluminium bowl is dark, almost green in colour. It has large globs of cream-tinted, roe-like cum, shot out into the murky urine, floating atop of it like fat on a simmering stew. Revolting. It is of course things that he has plenty of experience with separately. After all, swallowing cum is one of his hobbies, and it isn’t unusual that Spade chucks a funnel down his gullet and uses him as a urinal; yet the combination of the two shakes him to his very core. However, no matter how scared he is, this party still has an hour to go. Oh, it is _hard_ being the entertainment; a live toy, a living pegboard for anyone to pound themselves into, carve their names in like he’s a public bathroom. Unwilling, leaking holes clenching in on themselves. Are they going to make him drink it after? The thought makes an involuntary chill run down his back. He can’t tell if there is anything in it that excites him, and decides for himself that it doesn’t really matter. He is excited by a lot of things, despite his better judgement. He has learned to find pleasure in it. 

 

There is pleasure surging through him, even as they lift him by his back-stumps and dunk him headfirst into the cesspool of reeking bodilyfluids. A twisted baptism. His name is now RouxlsShithead Kaard, and his heavily controlled life will keep spiralling into this sadistic direction until he either dies peacefully or his last scream is mercifully ripped from his swollen throat. 

 

He’d spent his whole life trying to fit in and impress the upper class. So much that he’d willingly let himself be humiliated and abused for quick jokes and cheap punchlines. He was good at letting it slide right off of him, like a fatty goose. This wasn’t all that different.

 

Was it? 

 

It’s hard to tell what is normal when you don’t know anything else.


End file.
